


Can't Live With(out) You

by roseclipping



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Hate Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Office Sex, Pining, thomas is a softie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-17 22:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10603644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseclipping/pseuds/roseclipping
Summary: Thomas had lost count of how many times he had been in this same position, or Hamilton in his; though he supposed it didn’t matter. This would just be another moment in many, a memory he’ll look back on and pretend he regrets (though he knows he won’t, not really.)~After months of casual hate sex with Hamilton, Thomas realizes his worst nightmare has come true: he's caught feelings.Shit.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MenaceAnon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenaceAnon/gifts).



> my piece for the spring gift exchange 2k17. this was meant to be like, 5k words, i don't know what happened o o p s
> 
> disclaimer: i know dick about shit when it comes to lawyers, and working in a law firm, so if any of you lawyers are reading this, my apologies. it's probably hella inaccurate, but ya know. roll with it.
> 
> shoutout to my sick ass beta AloisMarc, this fic would like, suck ass without you. so thank you thank you for all your help xx
> 
> enjoy !!

**_Hamilton:_ ** _meet me in my office in 10 min_

 

To the naïve eye, the text may have seemed innocent enough; simply a coworker requesting the presence of a fellow colleague. Perhaps to discuss business, or continue a previously forgotten argument– this was Alexander Hamilton, after all. He and Thomas were notorious for their vicious debates.

Thomas knew better than to think this. After all, this was hardly the first text he had received of this kind– the unspoken message was clear. This little game of theirs had been going on for quite some time, and there was no reason for Thomas to think this anything other than another round, another play.

It did not stop Thomas from asking once he entered Hamilton’s office, though.

“What do you want, Hamilton?” he asked flatly, but the way he shut and locked the door behind him made it clear that he knew the answer good and well.

Hamilton, of course, noticed this– he noticed everything– and scoffed. “Like you don’t know.”

He sat at his desk with his feet propped up, leaning back in his chair, looking to the world like the most arrogant bastard Thomas had ever had the displeasure of meeting. Thomas approached with the biggest expression of distaste he could muster, and once he reached the desk Hamilton shifted his position; removing his feet from the desk and instead placing them on the ground, far apart from each other– leaving his legs spread wide and inviting. He eyed Thomas with one brow raised, questioning. Almost daring.

It was a well-rehearsed ritual, one they both knew well. Thomas had lost count of how many times he had been in this same position, or Hamilton in his; though he supposed it didn’t matter. This would just be another moment in many, a memory he’ll look back on and pretend he regrets (though he knows he won’t, not really.)

“You just gonna stand there?” Hamilton asked, his voice smooth and even and covered in the thinnest layer of ice. Thomas’ eyes narrowed, and part of him wanted to turn back, to leave Hamilton’s office without another word just to spite him.

He, of course, didn’t.

There is something uniquely degrading about crawling under the desk of someone who’s technically your inferior, _especially_ if that someone is your self-proclaimed nemesis, and yet Thomas couldn't seem to stop himself. The desk was cramped– Thomas’ was much better, much larger, but he had too much pride to take Hamilton to his own office and suck his dick under his _own desk._ So this would do.

“This better be reciprocated, you know,” Thomas muttered, fingers leisurely fiddling with the buttons on Hamilton’s slacks. He was going purposefully slow, too slow for Hamilton’s liking– to piss him off, maybe. Probably.

Hamilton smiled a sickly sweet grin down at him. “Why, Thomas, dear,” he said, voice dripping with cloying sarcasm, “If you wanted me so bad, all you have to do is ask.”

Thomas grit his teeth and resisted the urge to punch Hamilton in the face, instead focussing his concentration on the task at hand. If Hamilton wanted a blowjob, he was going to get a _damn good blowjob–_ it was always a victory to watch Hamilton come undone under his mouth. A small victory, but a victory all the same.

He finished popping open the buttons and slid the slacks down, just enough to reveal Hamilton’s boxer briefs. There was a considerable bulge in the middle, and Thomas mouthed at it; hot breath dampening the fabric ever so slightly. A small moan, more of a gasp, really, escaped Hamilton, and Thomas felt a surge of something like satisfaction rush through him.

“Get on with it,” Hamilton muttered through grit teeth. One hand found it’s way into Thomas’ hair, fingers tangling in the mess of wild locks.

With meticulous fingers, Thomas pulled Hamilton’s waistband down, pushing the boxer briefs down to mid-thigh. Hamilton’s cock sprang free, flushed and half-hard. A careful hand came up to run over the length, with an air of delicacy that suggested this was new territory, as if Thomas was taking his time to familiarize himself, map out every inch of skin and commit it to memory. This was, of course, not true– Thomas’ careful hands and careful fingers and careful touch only served as another piece in this little game, learned and perfected over countless rendezvous so similar to the one at present.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” Hamilton said, and something like need and desperation and _want_ began to crack the surface of his unemotional façade– Thomas smirked, he had barely even started and already Hamilton was breaking.

The hand in his hair tightened, and Thomas took that as his cue to stop teasing. One hand came up to grip Hamilton’s hip. He spared a glance upwards to meet the man’s gaze, letting out a soft breath that made him shiver. Thomas broke the eye contact after a beat to turn his attention back to the flushed cock in his hand, and with the faintest hint of a devilish grin, took it in fully; scoring the breathless gasp from above him as a victory for himself.

Thomas felt his own dick twitch a bit with the feeling of Hamilton’s cock on his tongue, but pushed the feeling down for the moment– his own desires could wait, there were more _pressing_ matters at hand. After a bit of torture, he dragged upwards, hollowed his cheeks and sucked; hand compensating for what his mouth couldn’t reach as he bobbed his head, eliciting the most beautifully strangled noises from the other man.

“Fucking go _faster,”_ Hamilton’s voice was shaky, as though desperately trying to pull himself together. It was too slow, it was always too slow, because Hamilton liked it _fast fast fast_ and Thomas– well, Thomas liked to see Hamilton suffer. And so he teased, never giving him _quite_ what he wanted but always giving just enough so that he’d always be craving more.

He pulled off with a _pop_ and licked his lips in that way he knew drove Hamilton _crazy,_ stared up at him through heavy lids and long lashes.

 _“Shit,_ why’d you _stop–”_ Hamilton muttered, attempting to come of pissed but sounding more desperate than anything else– another win for Thomas.

Thomas smirked. “Eager, are we?” he asked, voice heavy with feigned innocence. Hamilton just grunted, bucked his hips up slightly.

“Finish the job, sweetheart,” he said gruffly, and practically pushed Thomas’ head back down onto his cock. Thomas nearly yelped at the sudden forcefulness of it, but didn’t resist. Hamilton’s hand didn’t let up, though– he kept pushing Thomas down and bucking his hips up at an unforgiving pace– with a quick breath Thomas realized Hamilton was _fucking his face_ . He tensed, nearly ready to yank Hamilton’s hand away because they’d never done anything like this before, it had always been the _giver_ to do the work, never the receiver. This was uncharted territory… though after a beat he realized maybe he didn’t mind this so much, just letting himself be _used,_ and so he relaxed his jaw and concentrated on breathing through his nose and just let Hamilton take, and take, and take.

A muffled groan from above him and Hamilton was coming down his throat in hot, heavy bursts. Thomas pulled away, chest rising and falling in a rapid rhythm as he tried to catch his breath. Hamilton allowed him only a short pause before two hands were on his arms, pulling him out from under the desk and to his feet. Thomas opened his mouth to inquire, but then suddenly he was being shoved against the edge of the desk, Hamilton’s hips pressed up against his, their faces mere inches apart…

Something carnal seemed to stir in Hamilton, because the look he gave Thomas was no less than animalistic. One hand moved down between them, and swift fingers found his fly and were popping the buttons open, pulling the zipper down, reaching past elastic waistband and–

 _Ah._ Hamilton’s hand was around his cock, jerking at a rapid-fire pace so unlike Thomas’ own, slow rhythm. It was to be expected, really; _slow_ was a foreign concept to him.

Thomas’ hands found the desk, practically white-knuckled the edge of the wood for support. He could feel Hamilton’s breath on his neck, hot and needy and all kinds of desperate. He forced his eyes open to stare down the smaller man, and what a sight he was– face flushed, eyes heavy and lidded, lips parted ever so slightly.

Their eyes met, and for a moment it was quiet, only the sounds of labored breathing and skin on skin.

Hamilton’s gaze dropped to Thomas’ lips, and something flashed in his eyes, a little glimmer caught somewhere between mischievous and cruel and needy.

“Fuck you,” he whispered, and before Thomas could even begin to formulate a response, Hamilton’s lips were on his.

There was nothing romantic or intimate about this kiss, it was all desperation and unbridled lust and all kinds of pent-up rage. Hamilton kissed with a fervor, an unhinged, animalistic fury that sent Thomas’ head spinning.

They had never _kissed before,_ not like this. Sure, there had been bites and hickeys and hot mouthing along jawlines, but never once in this twisted game of theirs had they properly _kissed_ each other. The sensation was thrilling, exciting yet terrifying, and as it turned out, exactly what Thomas needed to fall over the edge, because not a minute later Thomas was coming in Hamilton’s hand with a strangled moan.

White lights danced around his vision as he slumped against the desk, the death-grip he held on the wood the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the ground. Hamilton pulled away, wordlessly grabbed a tissue from the box he kept sitting so innocuously on his desk and wiped his hand off.

Some amount of time passed– it could have been an hour, it could have been thirty seconds– where they stood in silence, hanging in limbo; Thomas found himself unable to break away from Hamilton’s steely gaze. Then suddenly, abruptly, Hamilton was backing up, straightening his suit jacket, reorganizing the papers that now lay strewn about on his desk.

“See yourself out, Jefferson,” Hamilton said, and just like that, the game was over; the walls were back up, and Hamilton was now nothing more than an annoyingly haughty coworker, no further relations.

Until next time, that is.

–––

Two days, three days, and then the weekend passes, and all Thomas could think about was that stupid fucking _kiss,_ how explosive it had been, how it send a thousand volts of electricity through his bones– which was _ridiculous,_ it hadn’t even been that _long._ Twenty seconds, if that, and yet it was affecting Thomas in this way.

Perhaps that was why, though. He was given one tiny taste, and now craved a full dose, like Hamilton was a twisted sort of drug dealer and this was his free sample. Which meant, of course, that Thomas could either refuse to confront it until the craving died down of its own accord, or satisfy the craving and hoped to God it didn’t end up killing him.

Thomas had always prided himself for his self control, which was why it was with a very _controlled hand_ that he sent the text to Hamilton: “My office. Now.”

The door creaked open and Hamilton stepped inside, impish sneer plastered onto his features.

“Why, _Thomas,_ it’s only Monday! Are we that eager? Or am I just that good?” Hamilton’s voice was sickly sweet, like rotten honey, as he approached. He rounded the desk, clearly going straight for the space under the desk without a second thought– _who’s eager, now?_ Thomas caught his arm before he could crouch down, instead pushing him back against the desk, much like Thomas had been the last time they played this.

Hamilton raised an eyebrow. “Change of scene?”

“Shut _up,”_ Thomas said, because _fuck,_ life would be so much easier if Hamilton just didn’t _talk,_ “Fucking– _kiss me,_ you bastard.”

A look of mild surprised crossed over Hamilton’s face, but he recovered quickly and in a flash had two hands on either side of Thomas’ face and was pulling him in less-than-gently for a furious kiss.

The kiss felt like liquid fire, all raw passion and hot anger and Thomas had never done drugs, other than fucking around a bit with weed in college, but he was sure that this had the same effect. Hamilton moaned– no, not moaned, _growled–_ into Thomas’ mouth, tried to push him backwards and get the upper hand. That wouldn’t do. With a grunt, Thomas shoved Hamilton back and leaned forward, forcing him to sit on top the desk. A little jar of pens knocked to the floor in the process, but Thomas paid it no mind. He slammed one arm on the desk, effectively pinning Hamilton in place, and their lips moved together so harshly and urgently he was surprised he didn’t taste blood.

Hamilton’s hands were everywhere– in his hair, on his face, clawing at his back and reaching down with shaky fingers to fumble with the zipper of Thomas’ pants. Their lips never left each others as Hamilton’s fingers crept past the elastic waistband, cold digits wrapping around Thomas and–

The creak of the door opening made them freeze simultaneously, but it was too late because the door was already swung open and someone was taking a step into the room.

“Thomas, I need you to read this–” James stopped in his tracks as Thomas practically threw Hamilton off of his desk. His eyes were wide, horrified as he took in the scene, eyes darting frantically from Thomas’ swollen lips to Hamilton’s shocked expression to– _oh god–_ Thomas’ undone fly.

For a dreadful moment, no words were said; nothing but the awkwardness and extreme tension of the situation hung in the air.

“I–” James stuttered, at a lost for words. “What the fuck,” he whispered faintly, and very quickly backed out of Thomas’ office, turned on his heel, and darted away.

“Fuck, Jefferson–” Hamilton started, sounding sheepish, but Thomas was having none of it.

“You forgot to _lock the door?”_ he seethed, anger and panic seemingly radiating off of him in waves. There was no time to yell at Hamilton now, though; he had to talk to James before this situation got any worse.

Hamilton started to say something, but Thomas was already hurrying to the door.

“Get out of my office, Hamilton. And pick up those fucking pens.”

–––

James was in his office, and Thomas thanked every deity that may be that he hadn’t ran off to tell others. Of course, deep down he knew James wouldn’t tell a soul– he was Thomas’ closest friend, after all, and far from the gossip type– but the panic manifested itself nonetheless.

Thomas barged in and swiftly locked the door behind him– _not that hard, Hamilton–_ and ran to where James sat at his desk.

“Look, Jemmy, I can explain–”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” James said, looking more hurt than anything else. “I mean, yeah, I don’t like him but– really, I thought you could trust me enough to tell me if you were _dating_ someone!” 

_Dating?_ Thomas blinked. That wasn’t right. “No, no, it’s– it’s not like that, we aren’t– we aren’t _together.”_ The word rolled off of his tongue like liquid cement– that is, with much difficulty.

James creased his eyes. “You were _kissing._ In your _office.”_

“I know, but it doesn’t _mean_ anything,” Thomas said, sinking into the chair on the other side of the desk. “We just– fool around sometimes.”

“Fool around,” James echoed, tone blank with an expression to match.

Thomas nodded. “Yeah. You know… stress relief, I suppose. It’s mutually beneficial.”

“Oh my _god,”_ James groaned, rubbing his temple with one hand. Thomas pitied the man, simultaneously thanking every power that may be that James had the patience to put up with him after all these years. “I don’t think I can ever step foot in your office again.”

“Don’t be dramatic, it’s not that bad,” Thomas chided, though there was a hint of playfulness in his tone.

James gave him an incredulous look. “Every time I see your desk now, it’ll be like, ‘oh yeah, Thomas and Hamilton _fuck there–’”_

“We don’t fuck,” Thomas interrupted quickly. It was true; full-on sex was _much_ too risky in an office setting. The furthest they’d ever gone was blowing one another; and one time last December after hours, where Hamilton had insisted on Thomas rimming him on the couch– a memory he looked back upon with equal amounts shame and satisfaction.

“You just… kiss?” James said, cocking an eyebrow.

Thomas felt his face flush. “Well… no. That was the first time, actually.” He paused. “Second, actually.”

“Then what do you _do?”_ James asked, though immediately covered his face and shook his head once Thomas gave a sheepish grin and formed a very _crude_ gesture with his hand. “Never mind, _never mind,_ fuck, I do _not_ want to know that.”

A beat of silence passed as James processed the sudden revelations.

“But like, _why Hamilton?_ Of all people?” James said, “You hate the man. And you’re practically his _boss.”_ Which, okay, wasn’t _actually_ true; Thomas’ position at Washington & Sons Law Firm was slightly higher up on the food chain than Hamilton due to seniority, though he didn’t hold any direct rule over him. Thomas had used the particular phrase to describe himself in relation to Hamilton quite frequently– to stroke his ego, though he wouldn’t admit to it– and over time James had picked it up as well.

Thomas shifted; it was a complicated situation, to say the least. “I do hate him– _fuck,_ he’s insufferable– but… I don’t know. It just _works._ And he’s a lot more bearable to be around when he isn’t _talking,_ and he’s… you know.”

James visibly cringed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret asking this, but how did this start?”

And so the words came out, spilling from Thomas’ lips like a river pushing past a broken dam. He told James everything, from the beginning– how they ran into each other in a bar last August, got in a fight after having one too many drinks, that fight somehow escalated into a mutual jerk-off in a seedy, dim-lit bathroom, (the details of _how_ that particular sequence of events occurred were still rather blurry) and how the next day Hamilton confronted Thomas about it in his office and– well, the rest could be inferred. They somehow pieced together a twisted game, a dance on a tightrope strung over an active volcano– no safety net in sight. It was fragile, it was precarious, it could break at any moment, and yet they kept coming back to it, again and again and again. It was an unorthodox relationship– _taboo_ might be a better word– and yet somehow, it worked. Or rather, they pretended it did.

By the time Thomas was done talking, James looked like he had aged about fifty years.

“This is a bad idea, this is a _very bad idea,_ you know this, right?”

Thomas shrugged. “Probably. But I try not to think too hard about it.” The less thinking, the more _doing,_ the easier it was. No feelings necessary.

James sighed, weary. “Please don’t get hurt, Thomas? Please.”

“I’m a grown man, Jemmy. I can take care of myself,” Thomas said. It nagged at him, he sometimes wish James wasn’t so damn _protective_ all the time. “This doesn’t mean anything, I promise. It’s just fucking around.”

“I thought you said you weren’t fucking,” James said dryly, cocking an eyebrow.

“Oh, shut up, you know what I meant,” Thomas shot back, the playful glint in his eye betraying whatever harsh act he tried to put up. He paused, sighing. “I should go. I have work to do.”

And he could’ve _sworn_ he heard James mutter something like _‘and somebody else,’_ but bit back a retort– he really _did_ have to get back to his work.

Thomas left James office with a wave, and hoped to God that Hamilton wasn’t still in his office when he returned.

–––

Hamilton wasn’t waiting for him, thankfully; in fact he barely heard or saw the man again for the rest of the week. The first day, he thought nothing of it; Hamilton had an actual job, too, and it wasn’t like they actually _talked_ to each other, outside of their fighting.

By Friday, though, Thomas was getting concerned (though he told himself quite firmly that what he felt was _not_ worry,) and had just come to the conclusion that Hamilton was actively avoiding him, or maybe moved to another continent, when the man himself barged into his office just shy of two hours before the work day was through.

 _That’s odd, usually he texts first,_ Thomas thought, but was more preoccupied with the way he most certainly did _not_ lock the door behind him– hell, he hadn’t even shut it all the way.

“Hamilton, what–” Thomas started, but Hamilton interrupted him.

“I came to apologize,” Hamilton said, and the way he shifted on his feet and clenched his jaw made it clear that ‘apology’ and ‘Thomas Jefferson’ were two ideas that did _not_ sit well together for him.

Thomas cocked an eyebrow. “Go on.”

“I forgot to lock the door, it was stupid, it was my fault. So… sorry.” He choked out the last word with a great amount of difficulty, though Thomas wasn’t sure how much of it was real and how much of it he was just hamming up, no pun intended. “But I’m going to make it up to you.”

“I don’t know if now is the best time–” Thomas said, and besides, the door _still_ wasn’t locked. What was going on?

Hamilton approached, but he didn’t even make it around to the other side of the desk. Instead, he simply held out a folded piece of paper, eyes raised in expectancy.

Thomas took the slip of paper with a ginger hand. “What is this?” he asked, dubious.

“My address,” Hamilton replied matter-of-factly. “Nine o'clock tonight. If you are… so inclined.” With that, he promptly turned on his heel and exited the office without another word.

Thomas stared down at the paper in his hand. He unfolded it, and a few lines of writing were scrawled in messy handwriting– an address, and brief directions on how to get there.

He gulped. Never had they done anything outside of the office, and there was a reason for that. Quick office hookups meant nothing; just an unconventional form of stress relief. The knowledge that people could be just outside the door prevented them from doing anything too serious. But being in the privacy of a home? Anything could happen.

James’ words echoed in his head. _Please don’t get hurt, Thomas? Please._

He shouldn’t do this. He _really_ shouldn’t do this.

But _god,_ the offer was so enticing… he let his mind run riot for a split second and images of Hamilton, naked and writhing beneath him or chest heaving above him danced in his vision. It still wouldn’t mean anything, right? People do this kind of thing all the time. Hell, before Hamilton came along he had a fling not so dissimilar with Angelica, and nothing ever came of that.

This would be _fine._ He could take care of himself.

Right?

Right.

–––

Thomas stood outside the door, heart racing in his chest. _This is nothing, it means nothing. It’s just the game. Just the game._ The time was 8:57, he wasn’t _late_ yet, he could always turn back and nothing else would come of it. But backing out now? When it was so close? He couldn’t do it.

His fingers wrapped tighter around the bottle of wine in his hands. It was an impulse decision, but it felt appropriate. People bring wine to these kinds of things, right? Angelica always brought wine. Then again, he had a much more congenial relationship with Angelica outside of fucking, whereas with Hamilton… not so much. Too late now, though, he supposed.

One hand came up and rapped against the wooden door three times, then fell limply to his side. It opened a moment later, and Hamilton stood in the doorway. Unlike Thomas, who had remained in his work clothes, Hamilton had dressed down for the occasion; clad in nothing but a grey hoodie and sweatpants. His hair was down and hung loosely around his face, instead of the tight ponytail Thomas was so used to seeing at work.

It was… a look. Thomas had to remember to breathe.

“You just gonna stand there, or are you coming in?” Hamilton said, and stepped to the side to let Thomas enter.

“I, uh. Brought wine,” Thomas said, holding out the bottle.

Hamilton blinked and took it. “Won’t be needing it. But thanks for free booze.” He promptly set it on the counter and before Thomas could protest was leading him by the wrist to the couch.

“Normally this starts with a ‘how was your day?’ or something,” Hamilton began as he half directed, half shoved Thomas onto the sofa. “But I don’t really like hearing you talk, so. Let’s just get to it, then.”

And then Hamilton was on him, body pressed against his and lips moving on his jaw like his life depended on it. Thomas let out a breath as Hamilton sucked a mark into the sensitive skin, placing it _just_ high enough so that a shirt wouldn’t cover it, but low enough so that his hair wouldn’t cover it, either. What a jackass.

Part of him just wanted to lay limp, to moan and gasp and let Hamilton take the reins. But no, he was much too prideful for that, he had do at least put up some semblance of a fight. So, with two determined hands coming up to grip either side of Hamilton’s face, he pulled the smaller man up for a rough kiss, lips crashing together with a burning ferocity.

They kissed, and kissed, and Thomas knew his lips were going to be red and swollen and maybe bruised by the time they were through. They kissed for what felt like years, tongue and teeth and angry touches along jawlines and under clothes and in hair, before finally Hamilton pulled away, breathless.

By that point he was fully straddling Thomas, legs on either side of his hips. He reached for Thomas’ tie and paused, waiting for an answer to the unspoken question.

Thomas nodded because yes, _god yes,_ and shifted his arms to shrug his blazer off, letting it fall to the ground in a crumpled pile. His tie joined the pile, and then Hamilton was working down his chest, rapidly unbuttoning the crisp white button-up and threw it to the side with the jacket and tie once he was done.

Hamilton let out a wry _‘damn’_ as his eyes raked Thomas’ torso, and he felt a surge of smugness bubble inside him. He had always prided himself on his figure, and considering all of their previous endeavors had taken place strictly from the waist-down, Hamilton had never had the pleasure of seeing his full physique in all its glory.

“Like what you see?” Thomas asked, smirking slightly. Hamilton scoffed.

“It’s better than your face, I’ll give you that,” he muttered, and shuffled himself further down until he was deliciously close to Thomas’ crotch. He wasted no time in unzipping Thomas’ pants and shoving them down to the knee, underwear coming with it, and in one swift movement was sinking his lips down onto Thomas’ cock. No preparation, no teasing, no nothing– how very Hamiltonian. Thomas would’ve laughed, but then Hamilton started bobbing his head at an unholy rhythm and the only sound that escaped his lips was a low, throaty moan.

Hamilton was a whirlwind; sucking and humming and moving his head up and down at an unforgiving pace, and it took every ounce of self-control in Thomas’ body not to thrash and whine and beg for _more, more, more_. Hamilton’s hands gripped his hips so tightly he was sure he’d have bruises the next day.

He was close, so close, he could feel it building in the pit of his stomach, but then suddenly Hamilton’s lips left him and this time he actually _did_ whine, however embarrassing that may be.

“Why’d you stop,” he gasped, but Hamilton only shushed him, crept back up his body and leaned in, their faces mere inches apart.

“Can I– can I fuck you,” Hamilton asked, voice low and raspy. Thomas’ breath hitched– _Hamilton_ fuck _him?_ He opened his mouth to protest, but just as he was forming the words his mind shot back to that time Hamilton fucked his mouth, and the thrilling aura of _power_ that radiated off of him in that moment, and suddenly the idea seemed much more intriguing. But still, it was _Hamilton._ His pride nagged at him– was he really willing to give Hamilton this?

Then again, he supposed he threw away every semblance of pride the moment he walked through the door.

A shaky nod was all Hamilton needed as an invitation, it seemed, because then his pants were being pulled all the way off and tossed to the floor.

Thomas pulled at the hem of Hamilton’s hoodie. “Take these off,” he said, because there was no way in _hell_ he would be stark naked while Hamilton remained clothed. Hamilton complied with a smirk, pulled off the hoodie in one fluid motion, then kicked off his sweats to join the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

“I’ll be right back,” Hamilton said, and darted away to get supplies, presumably, and Thomas found himself lying naked and breathless and alone on Hamilton’s couch, with _just_ enough time to wonder how exactly he had fucked up his life choices so badly that it led him to this spot before Hamilton was back, bottle of lube in one hand and little square silver packet in the other.

He hiked Thomas’ legs up and sat between them. Thomas felt his heart quicken to about a thousand beats a minute as he watched Hamilton pour a dollop of lube into his hand– _fuck,_ this was really happening.

Hamilton must’ve caught his expression because his hand dropped and he sat back on his heels. “Is this okay?” he asked with genuine concern, and the simple act of him asking made Thomas relax slightly.

He nodded. “Yeah, just– go slow. Please.”

“You’ve done this before, right?”

Thomas nodded. “A few times. Not often.”

“Just relax,” Hamilton said, and Thomas noticed how _soft_ his voice had gotten, the usual venom or bite vanished and in its place was something careful, concerned.

A finger pressed up against his hole and Thomas took a breath, forcing himself to relax. _Just sex. This is just sex._ More lube, and Hamilton was sliding his finger in, going surprisingly slow– Thomas had expected him to be _fast, fast, fast,_ and why should this be any different? But no, he was taking his time, letting Thomas get used to the sensation, meeting his gaze every so often to make sure everything was still okay.

Another finger teased his entrance, worked its way inside, and Thomas gasped. Hamilton paused, looking back up for reassurance to continue, and Thomas nodded fervently.

“Keep going– _fuck,”_ he gasped, as Hamilton suddenly twisted his fingers, curling them ever so slightly. Hamilton bend down and licked a stripe up Thomas’ cock and he unapologetically moaned at the sensation. He kept doing that; not really a blowjob, but providing just enough stimulation to ease the dull burn from the stretching.

“Can I do another?” Hamilton murmured, and slipped a third digit inside after Thomas’ nod in the affirmative. Three fingers twisted inside him, curling and scissoring and stretching and–

 _“Fuck,”_ Thomas hissed, back arching in pleasure as Hamilton brushed against his prostate.

Hamilton smirked, hit the same spot again and elicited the same reaction from Thomas. “You can be loud, you know,” he muttered, voice low and sensual and dripping with raw lust. “No one will hear you. I bet I can make you _scream.”_

Honestly, Thomas could’ve came from hearing that alone, and he was a bit mortified with himself for how much Hamilton’s _voice_ of all things was affecting him. In any other situation, that voice made him want to drill a hole through his head, but now? It sounded like liquid gold, hot and molten and _oh so good._

After a few more minutes of stretching Hamilton’s fingers left him, and he gasped at the sudden emptiness. He let his eyes shut as the soft sound of crinkling foil registered faintly, stars dancing behind his eyelids.

_He was about to get fucked._

_He was about to get fucked by Alexander Hamilton._

Life was strange. His was the strangest.

“Is this okay?” Hamilton asked, and Thomas opened his eyes again to see the man so much smaller than him in stature towering over him, and in that moment he felt _very very small._

Thomas gasped out a breathy _yes_ and gripped the edge of the couch for support– why were they even _on_ the couch, still? The bed seemed much more practical. Though, the bed was also farther away, and Hamilton always favored efficiency over practicality.

Beds were for romantics, anyways. This wasn’t romance. Just sex.

He heard the sound of more lube being squirted, but couldn't see it through the cloudy haze blocking out everything but Hamilton's face, which was in razor-sharp focus.

_Focus._

It's hard to focus on a single, flickering candle flame when you're being blinded by the sun, yet somehow the feeling of something blunt being pressed against his entrance broke his thoughts away from Hamilton's face, his eyes, the curve of his mouth; and someone was using that flickering flame to set his bones on fire because _holy shit_ this was happening, this was real. Hamilton was above him and was fucking him and it was– _shit_ – it was too much.

“Wait,” Thomas choked, and Hamilton froze. “I need to– change position–”

Hamilton's hold loosened on him and he used the opportunity to sit up, pushed Hamilton to where he sat back on the couch and swung one leg over his waist. Thomas was straddling Hamilton now, sitting on his lap but keeping most of his weight off the smaller man for fear of crushing him. Though, maybe that wouldn't be a terrible idea.

“Now,” Thomas whispered, and yes, this was much better. He was on top of Hamilton, he regained some semblance of control, his heartbeat wasn't roaring in his ears anymore. This was good.

He lined himself up above Hamilton's cock, with Hamilton's hands on his hips to guide him, and slowly, carefully, sank down onto his dick. He had been stretched, yes, but it had been years since he bottomed last and the breach still made him gasp.

Hamilton's hand found its way into his hair and pulled him close. “You're okay, it’s okay,” he kept murmuring, and it was much too intimate but Thomas found himself relaxing into it, pressing up against him until there was no space separating their bodies anymore, skin on hot, shaking skin.

Thomas began to move, slowly, getting used to the feeling. He noticed how Hamilton very carefully was _not_ moving his hips, letting Thomas do all the work– and what a kind sentiment, really?

He pressed a kiss to the side of Hamilton’s neck and rolled his hips, smirking in satisfaction at the moan that left Hamilton. It was _delicious._

“C’mon, move,” Hamilton muttered into the side of Thomas’ face. And move he did; pulling himself up and dropping back down with short little gasps and moans, holding Hamilton close in a lover’s embrace–

_Lovers?_

And just like that, Thomas snapped out of his stupor. This wouldn’t do; this romantic holding each other and whispering reassurances and soft caresses; Thomas needed to _fuck._

“Fuck me,” he said, teeth grit with just the right amount of venom lacing his tone. “Stop just– sitting there. _Fuck me.”_

The words seemed to shake Hamilton back to reality, remind him too that this was _hate sex,_ emphasis on the _hate;_ words like ‘soft’ and ‘careful’ had no business here.

Hamilton thrust his hips up and Thomas moaned, not even trying to quiet himself. He began a vigorous pace; thrusting up as Thomas bounced on his cock to the same rhythm. Thomas leaned down to suck angry red marks into Hamilton’s neck, placing them just so to where he’ll have one hell of a time trying to cover them. _Payback, asshole._

They set a bruising pace, and any trace of nerves Thomas had going into this had dissipated; replaced in full with a burning need to _fuck,_ to ruin Hamilton in the best way possible, to drown himself in the sensations. Bodies took over and brains became disengaged, this was it.

Hamilton fucked like he kissed and he kissed like he fought; brutal and desperate and buzzing with passion. He fucked, and he fucked _hard,_ and Thomas wondered what he might look like tied up and begging beneath him– or perhaps, looming over him with a pair of handcuffs, devilish glint in his eyes as his lips form the promise of a night Thomas with _never_ forget.

The fantasies were what brought Thomas to the edge, and Hamilton digging his nails into his back is what pushed him over. He came with a shout that turned into something between a whine and a moan, and collapsed onto Hamilton, exhausted and boneless. Hamilton climaxed not ten seconds later, and for a brief moment there was a still silence between them, just breathing and nothing else.

Then Hamilton shifted, pulled out of Thomas and stood. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered, left for a minute or two before returning with a damp washcloth and pair of flannel pajama bottoms.

He handed the washcloth to Thomas and set the pajama bottoms on the arm of the couch. “You can go home or you can sleep on the couch, I don’t care. I’m going to bed.” His voice was bored, formal, lacking in any sort of emotion– the game was over.

And then Hamilton was gone and Thomas was alone in the dark. He cleaned himself up with the washcloth and tosses it to the floor– Hamilton could deal with it later– and sank into the couch, exhausted. The dizzy high post-orgasm was waning, and his limbs felt like they’d been turned to led.

 _I should go home,_ he thought, but the prospect of changing back into his clothes and travelling all the way back to his apartment seemed like a monstrous tasked when really all he wanted to do was sleep.

With a defeated sigh, he pulled his underwear back on and grabbed the flannel pajama bottoms, running his fingers lightly over the fabric. It was soft, well worn, which meant it was probably way too small on Thomas if Hamilton had worn it that much. Sure enough, when he pulled them on each pant leg hung a good three inches above his ankles. It looked rather ridiculous.

Thomas stretched out along the couch and pulled the ratty throw blanket over himself, trying to get comfortable. A bed would’ve been nice… especially if there was another person in it, someone to wrap his arms around and pull close and bury his face in messy, raven hair–

 _Shit. No._ When did he start thinking of _Hamilton_ like that?

Actually, no. He knew the answer to that question good and well, and wasn’t stupid enough to lie to himself about it. Hamilton whispering soft affirmations into his ear, Hamilton waiting and being careful and making sure he’s comfortable with everything, Hamilton going _slow_ for him– Hamilton never slows down. And yet, he did.

Stupid, stupid. Thomas wasn’t naïve enough to catch feelings after _sex,_ right? Sex is sex, love is love. The two are separate.

He was just coming down from the effects of some really fucking good sex, that was all. It had to be. Nothing more, nothing less. He _hated_ Hamilton.

Thomas shut his eyes, trying to find sleep.

_It was just sex._

_Just sex._

_Just sex._

–––

It wasn’t just sex. He came to that conclusion after two weeks of tumultuous internal debating, more than a few additional hot nights with Hamilton, and a drunken rant over the phone to James– it wasn’t just sex. It had never _been_ just sex, it was an arrangement that from the very beginning stemmed from passion and fire and raw emotions– love and loathe sound similar for a reason.

And it could’ve stayed like that, could’ve just stayed at fiery hate sex, nothing casual about it but still full of emotion and anger and fire until it eventually burn itself– and them– into nothing, but _no,_ it wasn’t like that anymore.

Because somewhere along the way, Thomas just _had_ to go and catch _feelings._

Thomas stared at the dent in his wall in distaste. Sure, punching the wall may have seemed like a perfect way to get his frustration at the _time,_ but now he had to deal with fucking dent in his otherwise spotless wall.

Maybe he could put a painting over it. Nothing says “I’m in control of my life” like covering your shame in abstract art.

Hanging a painting wouldn’t get rid of the real problem, the one Thomas had taken to calling _‘developing an emotional connection to The Most Annoying Human on the planet.’_ The worst part of it was that Thomas wasn’t even that _surprised,_ Hamilton was just as easy to love as to hate.

This wasn’t _love,_ though, right? Of course not. It was an infatuation of sorts. An addiction. Hamilton was a drug and he just so happened to be dumb enough to get hooked.

Ah, fuck.

Thomas’ phone buzzed and he picked it up, and visibly cringed when he saw the text.

 

 **_Hamilton:_ ** _come over?_

 

Out of pure habit, Thomas began to text a _‘be there in 15’_ in reply like he always did, but this time his fingers froze.

_Did he really want to dig himself deeper into this hole?_

His finger hovered over the ‘Send’ button, and every muscle in his body was screaming at him to press it, to forget whatever inner turmoil he was facing and ruin himself even further, but something held him back. Because he knew exactly how it would go down; he would get there and they would kiss and then they would fuck and Hamilton would be so attentive, rough but not careless and  angry but not malicious, exactly how Thomas liked it. And then somewhere in the middle of it all Thomas would start hoping that _maybe this time_ they would kiss even after they fucked, and they would hold each other and fall asleep with each other and wake up and maybe kiss some more, but they never did. No, it was like a switched flipped in Hamilton, and they were back to enemies, no sentiment required.

Maybe for Hamilton it really _was_ just sex.

The notion stung.

Thomas grit his teeth and felt like punching another hole in the wall, or maybe just burning the fucking house down altogether. It was one thing to catch feelings; yes, okay, whatever. He could deal. But it was another thing to catch feelings for someone who is, in all sense of the words, only in it for the sex. Hamilton despised Thomas; he made that _quite clear._

Hamilton was a drug, and he was hooked. You can’t go to rehab for a person, though; and weaning himself off of him wouldn’t work; he’d just lose control and come back, time and time again until it swallowed him whole.

His only choice, it seemed, was to quit altogether. Avoid him, cut himself off, until the flame flickers into a feeble ember and eventually into nothing.

For the first time since this game began, Thomas put the phone down.

 _God,_ he hoped there wouldn’t be withdrawal.

–––

 **_Hamilton:_ ** _jefferson_

 **_Hamilton:_ ** _why aren’t you responding?_

 **_Hamilton:_ ** _pls answer_

 **_Hamilton:_ ** _thomas._

 

The phone lit up with yet another text and Thomas was _this close_ to hurling his phone out the damn window. Four days had passed since he stopped everything with Hamilton, and the man had been trying to contact him pretty much nonstop since. Twice he had barged into Thomas’ office and was met with a _‘get out, Hamilton,’_ on six different occasions he had called– Thomas never picked up, just let it ring and ring until it went to voicemail. Hamilton never left a message, and Thomas wasn’t sure if he was relieved with that or frustrated.

The texting was getting ridiculous. They were at _work,_ for fucks sake– was Hamilton _really_ that desperate for a fuck?

Of course he was. What a pointless question.

Thomas switched his phone to ‘Do Not Disturb’ and tried to resume his work, but his concentration was broken only minutes later by the door opening.

_Fucking hell, Hamilton–_

Only, it wasn’t Hamilton. It was Washington.

Thomas nodded. “Mr. Washington, sir, what can I do for you?”

Washington approached Thomas’ desk and placed a folder on his next. “I’m assigning you to a case. Here’s the file for it. I expect you to prepare yourself.”

“Thank you, sir.” Thomas said. He sifted through the file– some sort of domestic abuse case. Woman filing for divorce, husband putting up a fight, et cetera et cetera. Nothing he hadn’t seen before.

Washington cleared his throat, drawing Thomas’ attention back to him. “And ah, Jefferson. The client has requested for two attorneys.” He paused, giving Thomas a knowing look.

“Yes?”

“I’m putting you with Hamilton. You will take the case together.”

Thomas choked. Surely he misheard, right? Surely, because there was no way in _Hell_ Washington said what he thought he say. “With all due respect, Sir, I don’t think–”

“I know that you two don’t get along,” Washington interrupted sternly, “But I need you to work with him on this. You two are my best lawyers–” Thomas would’ve preened at the praise if he wasn’t so busy trying not to vomit– “–so I’m pairing you together on this. That’s final. Good day, Mr. Jefferson.”

Washington turned on his heel and exited the office, leaving Thomas to slump over in his chair, defeated and dumbfounded. This couldn’t be happening. This could _not_ be happening.

But it was. It was happening, and there was no way for Thomas to avoid it without quitting. Or driving off a cliff, maybe.

(Though, both of those options didn’t seem that bad when faced with the alternative.)

Thomas shook his head a little. He could do this. He was grown, he could fend for himself, and he _definitely_ could be in the same room as Hamilton without wanting to rip his head off. Or jump his bones.

Hamilton didn’t burst into his office like he was expecting, and he didn’t even text Thomas anymore after that. It was a small victory, and Thomas was actually able to go over the case and get some work done without any distractions.

The peace did not last forever, though. Barely thirty minutes had passed after getting home when the sound of frantic, rapid knocking shattered the quiet of his apartment.

Confused, Thomas padded over to the door and opened it, only to be faced with a very pissed, very frazzled looking Hamilton.

“What the–” Thomas started, about to launch into a tirade on how Hamilton needed to _get out, we can look at the case later, now is not the fucking time,_ before he realized another, much more important issue. “How the _fuck_ do you know where I live?” Damn it, was he going to have to move? Shame. He really liked this apartment.

Hamilton ignored Thomas and pushed past him into the apartment.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” he asked, affronted by Hamilton’s brashness but honestly not that surprised.

Hamilton whirled around and gave him a withering glare. “You’ve been ignoring me. And that won’t work when we have a _case_ to work on.” He held up a file identical to the one Washington gave Thomas. “Now come on. We have work to do."

Thomas stood near the door, swaying slightly. Trying not to panic.

_Breathe. You can do this. It’s just work, purely professional._

His heart, ever the traitor, ached a little at ‘Hamilton’ and ‘purely professional’ in the same thought.

Resigning himself to this fate, Thomas trudged back into the living room where Hamilton had already stationed himself on the couch and laid out the various papers in front of him on the coffee table, looking impossibly at home.

“Seriously, how did you find out where I lived?”

Hamilton shrugged dismissively. “I have connections. It’s not important. Now look at this…”

Cautiously, Thomas slid into the seat next to Hamilton, who launched into a long-winded and wordy explanation on _exactly how_ they could and would win the case, and the amount of detail and scrutiny he had put into this made it seem like he’d been reviewing this for months. Which, maybe he had. Washington had always seemed to favor him, for whatever reason.

One minute turned into ten, which turned into thirty, and soon a full hour had gone by and Thomas realized– with somewhat of a jolt– that for the entire time, they had been _working._ Not fighting, not arguing and throwing underhanded insults at each other, but actually _working._ Sure, they had disagreements and exchanged snide comments more than a few times, but for the most part they worked in peace and actually got a lot accomplished.

_What the hell was happening?_

“Okay, I think we should take a break,” Hamilton said, setting his pen down and popping his knuckles.

“Alexander Hamilton? Taking a break? Preposterous,” Thomas muttered under his breath, and Hamilton shot him a dirty look.

“Yeah, you can fuck yourself,” he said, with a noticeable lack of bite behind the words. He paused, and the air grew still and thick between them. Quiet, for just a moment.

Then, as he always did, Hamilton broke the silence. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Thomas shifted. _There it was._ He couldn’t say he hadn’t been expecting it, but that didn’t change the fact that he _really_ did not want to have this conversation now. Or ever, for that matter.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” The words left him before he could stop himself; biting retorts had always been his first line of defense when it came to Hamilton.

Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t give me that shit. You kick me out of your office. You don’t answer my texts. What’s your problem?”

“What’s _my_ problem?” Thomas repeated, incredulous. _Liking you. Loving you. Hating you._ “Go to Hell, Hamilton.”

Instead of scoffing or rolling his eyes like Thomas was expecting, Hamilton’s gaze softened. “Was it something I did?” He shifted, and it was like his entire demeanor changed. “You can tell me, you know. I know we aren’t, ah. _Friends,_ per say, but if there’s something bothering you…”

Thomas grit his teeth. _Fuck him._ Fuck him, and the way he can so effortlessly slide from being someone he wants nothing more than to smack upside the face to someone so caring, so attentive, someone who made Thomas feel like he was wanted…

Which, he supposed he was. That was the point of it, this soft act Hamilton was putting on. Thomas was _wanted,_ but not in the same was he wanted Hamilton– where he craved something real, something intimate, Hamilton was only interested in the body and blood; and if getting to that meant he had to put on a tender façade, then so be it.

Hamilton made a fine actor. Really, he should get a _fucking_ Tony. Hell, make it ten. Eleven.

When Thomas didn’t respond, Hamilton took it upon himself to inch ever closer, even risking a light hand on Thomas’ knee.

“Talk to me.”

It was tempting, it really was. To let go of whatever moral ropes were holding him back, to play into Hamilton’s little game and give him what he wanted. He could say without shame (with a little bit of shame) that he missed Hamilton; missed his touches and his lips and their nights together– though, ‘together’ was a stretch, seeing as Thomas was consigned to the couch if he decided to stay the night. He always stayed.

“Thomas?”

He called Thomas by his first name. He _never_ did that. Thomas swallowed, fidgeting in his seat.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. This new dynamic between them was foreign and Thomas felt entirely out of his element. They didn’t _do_ this kind of thing, this ‘tell me about your problems, I’m here for you’ thing. That wasn’t _them._ They fucked and they fought, and that’s all there was to it.

And yet, Thomas found himself breaking. “For avoiding you.”

Hamilton nodded. Blinked once, hawk-like and calculating. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

Thomas shook his head, not meeting Hamilton’s gaze. “No, it’s just… personal stuff. Work got in the way. You know how it is.” That was a lie. Complete and utter bullshit, fabricated directly from his ass. But what other choice did he have? Look him in the eyes, confess whatever stupid emotions he was feeling? Hardly.

“I get that.” Hamilton nodded slightly. “You okay now?”

What a question. _You okay now?_ Like he was a ten year old who just got his first heartbreak when his playground girlfriend broke up with him, and Hamilton was his concerned friend making sure his little ten year old heart wasn’t _too_ sad. Such trivial phrasing, and Thomas had to try _really hard_ not to scoff in Hamilton’s face.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” _That’s it, Thomas. Lay yourself nice and comfortable down in your own grave. Surely Hamilton will be nice enough to bury you._

Something subtle in Hamilton’s demeanor shifted, and he put on the faintest of grins. “That’s good,” he said, voice impossibly soft. The hand on his knee began to creep up his thigh. The movement was small, but certainly did not go unnoticed by Thomas. “I’ve missed you.” A simple three words, but his suggestive tone spoke so much more.

Thomas’ breathing escalated, and something like alarm flashed in Hamilton’s eyes. His hand stilled.

“Or– we don’t have to–” Hamilton faltered, looking to Thomas for a sign.

This was his chance. He could smack Hamilton’s hand away, and then Hamilton would leave and that would be that. The game would be over, for good. They would go back to their beginnings, enemies and nothing more. Whatever traitorous emotions had been plaguing Thomas as of late would wither away and die, and that would be that. There would be no more secret office rendezvous, or spur-of-the-moment hookups in Hamilton’s apartment, just a month or two of heartache and he and Hamilton would be… just enemies. Like they always had been. Like they should be.

 _You should go._ Thomas looked down at the hand on his thigh, then back up to meet Hamilton’s eyes.

 _Really, it’s for the best._ As cliché as it may be, Hamilton’s eyes were enticing. Inky black, inquisitive, with an air about them that said _I know things you don’t._

 _I can’t do this to myself…_ Self-control. Remember a time when he prided himself on self-control? Eons ago, it must’ve been. Sure as hell felt like it.

 _I don’t want you to leave._ In a daze, Thomas’ hand lifted and found its resting place on the side of Hamilton’s face.

_Please._

“Fuck it,” Thomas whispered, and connected their lips.

Some fires are too beautiful to let flicker out. And if he gets burned in the process, to hell with it.

–––

Two weeks. Two weeks, and Thomas was at war.

They fucked that night, that godforsaken night that felt like a distant memory when in reality was barely fourteen days. They fucked, and Hamilton left afterwards. Didn’t even stay for the night– _Thomas wouldn’t have made him sleep on the couch._

They fucked a lot after that, too. It simultaneously felt like nothing had changed and everything had changed. Their dynamic was no different than how it was before Thomas had tried (and failed) to cleanse Hamilton from his system, and yet Thomas felt like his world had been turned on its axis.

It felt like a brand new stab wound each and every time Hamilton left, or made him sleep on the couch (though by that point Hamilton never explicitly _told_ him to sleep on the couch, after the first time that just sort of became their routine.) And yet, Thomas couldn’t seem to stop himself. Try as he might– which was, admittedly, not at all– he couldn’t shake the infuriatingly addictive enigma of a man that was _Alexander_ fucking _Hamilton._

And they still argued at work, a lot. That hadn’t changed at any point, not that Thomas expected it to. They couldn’t stand each other as people, few could get under Thomas’ skin like Hamilton could, though more often than not Thomas found himself wondering what Hamilton would be like in a casual setting, far away from the stressful environment of work. How did Hamilton’s friends perceive him? How did his family? Did he even _have_ family?

It was funny; for the amount of time spent together, Thomas barely knew the man at all.

The door to his office creaked open and Hamilton came in. He didn’t text; he never texted anymore. Just came in at random and pressed play.

Thomas rolled his chair back out of habit, but faltered for a minute; not sure if he was in the mood. It had been a rough couple of days, work had been drowning him and he hadn’t been able to keep his mind straight and sleep was becoming a fleeting thing. He was exhausted.

“Hamilton, I–” Thomas started, but came to a pause when he saw what Hamilton was doing. He had a cup of coffee in one hand and some kind of pastry in the other, and both were being held out in offering to Thomas across the desk.

“You’ve looked like shit the past few days,” Hamilton said, voice carefully lacking emotion, though Thomas caught the way he shifted on his feet slightly, rocking back and forth in a way he only did when he was nervous. “Thought you could, ah. Use a pick-me-up.”

Slowly, Thomas reached out and accepted the gifts. Hamilton stood there expectantly, his eyes flitting from the coffee cup to Thomas; brow raised like he was waiting for something.

Thomas brought the coffee to his lips and took a careful sip. It was quite good; sweet and creamy and tasting slightly of hazelnuts.

“Well?” Hamilton pressed, and Thomas found the action oddly endearing– Hamilton was waiting for his reaction, Hamilton wanted to make sure Thomas liked it.

“It’s good. Hazelnut, I like it,” Thomas said, and Hamilton lips turned upwards, satisfied with himself.

“I knew you’d like it. You seemed like one of those pompous assholes who get a bunch of sugary crap in their coffee.”

It was classic Hamilton snark, and yet it filled Thomas with such an unexpected sense of relief. For a minute, it seemed like everything was back to normal, and he relished in it.

“And what do you drink?” Thomas retorted, “Black coffee? Only sad people drink black coffee. Have some self respect.”

“Damn right I drink black coffee, I’m not a bitch like _some people.”_

“You callin’ me a bitch, Hamilton?”

“Bet your _ass_ I am.”

Hamilton gave an impish, toothy grin. He moved back a couple steps, and cleared his throat. “I should go. Enjoy your dumbass sugar coffee.”

Thomas took that opportunity to take an obnoxiously long sip. “Enjoy your bitter, sad black coffee.”

“Bitter and sad. Guess I have a type,” Hamilton said with a pointed look at Thomas, and ducked out of his office– while snickering rather loudly– before Thomas form a response.

He picked up the pastry Hamilton had brought him and took a bite. Some sort of lemony scone thing, also quite good. He made a mental note to ask Hamilton where he had got these, because _damn._

After a couple minutes to enjoy his coffee, Thomas went back to work, feeling leaps and bounds better than before.

Two days later, a cup of coffee sat waiting for him on the desk when Thomas came into work. There was no name in sight, but when Thomas sniffed it– hazelnut– he knew exactly who it was from.

How strange. Thomas could understand why Hamilton brought him coffee the day before last– he had been radiating an ‘I feel like shit’ aura so strongly that he wouldn’t be surprised if folks across the state could feel it. But today? Nothing was particularly wrong, other than the mess of conflicting emotions battling in his head that Thomas had settled in as his new normal. Which, really, this coffee cup wasn’t exactly helping that situation. The thought of _throw it away_ passed briefly through his head. He shook it off just as quick; there’s no point in wasting a perfectly good cup of coffee, especially if he could _really_ use said cup of coffee right about now.

So he didn’t think about it.

He learned not to think about a lot of things, as it happened. It was so much easier to just _not think,_ to accept and move forward, than to dwell and overthink every little thing that came about.

The coffee became a daily thing, and Thomas didn’t question it. He never saw Hamilton deliver it to his office, but he never asked about it either. Let himself look forward to the deliciously sugary drink, occasionally paired with a cookie or lemon scone, and took it in stride.

It was a crisp Friday morning when Thomas found himself running a little on the early side. On impulse, he stopped by the closest coffee shop and ordered a medium coffee– no sugar, no cream. Dark roast. Didn’t understand the appeal, like, _at all,_ but thanked the barista when she handed it to him and continued to his office.

Hamilton wasn’t in his office when Thomas got there, which came as a small relief. He understood why Hamilton brought his coffee before he arrived, it was a potentially awkward conversation he’d much rather avoid. Thomas placed it in the middle of his desk next to a stack of papers and left without leaving a trace.

A steaming cup of hazelnut coffee and a lemon scone awaited him when he got to his office.

Thomas wasn’t sure when Hamilton had brought it to him, or how he had made it back to his office without seeing him, but neither of those details stopped the tight smile from spreading across his face.

–––

Although it may have seemed like Hamilton had a knack for making time for his and Thomas’ little hookups no matter _what_ the situation, work eventually did catch up with them. Their meetings became less and less frequent as the trial approached, and by the time they went the court they hadn’t found each other’s private company in weeks.

Trial days were Hamilton’s favorite, Thomas could tell. No matter how boring or mundane a particular case may be, he always found some way to make it a thrill; if only a thrill for himself and a nuisance to everybody else. That, combined with winning (which he nearly always did) gave Hamilton satisfaction like nothing else. He reveled in it.

They found a few moments alone before the trial began, in a deserted hallway somewhere in the courtroom. Thomas had tucked away into the empty corridor to calm his nerves, and Hamilton had found him. As always.

“Hey,” Hamilton said upon seeing him. Thomas nodded slightly in greeting. He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or irritated to see Hamilton here. Maybe both. Probably both.

“You ready for the case?” Hamilton asked casually, leaning back on the wall and idly picking at a cuticle. It was such a relaxed position, and Thomas couldn’t relate; not with the way his palms were sticky and clammy, or how his heartbeat pounded deafeningly in his ears.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Thomas muttered in response. He always got like this before a trial, it was ridiculous. He was a damn good attorney, there was no need for his nerves to be running wild like this. And yet, they always did. Thomas learned to deal.

His anxieties must’ve shown through in his face, or perhaps Hamilton was exceptionally good at reading people. Hamilton put one hand on Thomas’ shoulder, looked him straight in the eye.

“We’re gonna fucking kill it. I know we will,” he said firmly, resolutely. “Reynolds is gonna shit his _pants.”_

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re supposed to talk about the accused like that.”

Hamilton rolled his eyes. “You see him anywhere?” He gestured about to the empty hallway. Reynolds was, of course, nowhere to be seen. “Now, come on. Let’s kick some ass.”

The trial went smoothly, and Thomas found himself considerably less anxious than he had been before. Reynolds was charged with _several_ counts of assault, and was sentenced to two years in jail, as well as given a restraining order once he was released. They won the case– Thomas wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

Hamilton went out for drinks with some work friends in celebration, Thomas declined the offer upon being invited. Instead he went home, weary and exhausted from the proceedings of the day, and collapsed on the couch with a book. Peace.

He was debating whether or not to order takeout when his phone buzzed on the coffee table; someone had texted him.

 

 **_Hamilton:_ ** _come over? i have dinner & wine. to celebrate the trial. _

 

Thomas’ brow furrowed, and he shot back a reply.

 

 **_To: Hamilton:_ ** _thought you were out getting drinks?_

 **_Hamilton:_ ** _i was but i missed u_

 

The reply came not five seconds after Thomas had pressed ‘Send.’ He wondered, vaguely, as he was pulling on his jacket and grabbing his keys, how much of it was _miss you_ and how much was _miss your body._

He wasn’t sure where Hamilton’s true feelings surrounding their situation stood; hell, he wasn’t even sure about his _own_ anymore. It made his head hurt trying to figure it out, so he’d stopped trying long ago. Roll with the tide, as they say.

At one point, he felt a certain apprehension upon standing just outside of Hamilton’s door; so tantalizingly close to the thing he desired and feared so strongly. That apprehension was long gone by this point, so he knocked breezily once, twice, before the door swung open. Hamilton stood barefoot with his hair down, falling loosely around his face and framing it quite nicely. He jerked his head back into the apartment and turned, beckoning for Thomas to follow.

If Thomas was foolish enough to expect a classy, elegant meal, he would’ve been in for a rude awakening; Hamilton’s idea of a celebratory dinner was delivery pizza and an unopened bottle of white wine. Fortunately for him, Thomas knew Hamilton well enough to be entirely unsurprised at the setup.

“Dig in, hope it’s not to high end for you,” Hamilton said, lips turning up into a sarcastic half-smile.

Thomas scoffed. “If this is your idea of high end, I’m terrified of what you think cheap food is.”

Hamilton stuck his tongue out at Thomas in a highly juvenile fashion, and Thomas rolled his eyes, holding back a laugh.

The pizza was surprisingly good, and the wine wasn’t terrible, either. They ate in silence, mostly, until the bottle was nearly gone and a meager two slices of pizza remained, and Hamilton spoke up.

“I missed you.”

His words resonated with a sense of familiarity– he’d sent that exact phrase over text not two hours ago.

“You’ve said that,” Thomas said. _Missed me? Or missed my body?_

Hamilton was silent, and there was a distinct look in his eyes that Thomas couldn’t quite place, though he knew he’d seen it before.

Wordlessly, Hamilton pushed his chair back and stood, came around to the other side of the table where Thomas sat.

_Missed me? Or my body?_

Hamilton pulled himself to where he was essentially straddling Thomas’ lap, cupped either side of his face and pulled him into a kiss, with all the fervor and desperation of a man in the desert who’s found an oasis.

_Missed my body._

Thomas kissed back, and for a minute he lost himself in Hamilton’s lips, lost himself to the feeling of Hamilton biting and sucking and rocking gently back and forth, hands traveling up (they could never stay still) and nestling in Thomas’ hair, or coming down to play with the hem of his shirt; teasing just so.

When Hamilton pulled away and led him down the hall to the bedroom, he followed. He didn’t think about whether this was real, whether Hamilton was missing _him_ or _his body,_ those thoughts could be saved for later. All that mattered in this moment was Hamilton’s hand leading him further down the hallway to the promise of skin on skin, sweet release that he so desperately desired, and damn it, he was going to get it.

–––

Thomas collapsed on the bed beside Hamilton, completely breathless and head absolutely spinning. His heart was absolutely _racing_ in his chest; it felt like someone had taken a bag of bricks and hit him square in the ribs.

It wasn't at all because the sex was _bad;_ rather, the complete opposite.

He had gone into it expecting it to be how it had always been– rough, needy, and full of raw fire. It was what he was craving, it was what he was used to, it was what he knew how to do well. They hadn't been together in weeks, and knowing Hamilton, Thomas assumed he would but jumping back into it full force.

But it hadn't been like that– not in the slightest. Where he had expected things to be rough, Hamilton was soft. Where he had expected wild, unabashed moans and bruises in the shape of fingers on hip bones, Hamilton was all soft touches and passionate kisses and holding onto Thomas like a lifeline. He kissed him, never _stopped_ kissing him as they fucked, and continued kissing him until they fell against each other, and even then his lips strayed along Thomas’ jaw, his neck, his chest.

There was only a handful of words that could adequately describe it. Romantic. Passionate. _Genuine._

Which, of course, made Thomas absolutely _terrified._

Terrified, because if it wasn't real, and Hamilton had only been missing his body instead of him, he feared it would break him. And part of him, the part of his brain that hid behind a haughty, confident outer shell and whispered dreadful things like _you're going to fail_ before every single trial was screaming at him to _run,_ get up and leave this bed and never look back to avoid facing a reality he didn't want to hear.

The bed shifted; Hamilton getting up. Presumably to fetch a damp washcloth as he had done countless times before.

 _This is your chance,_ his brain whispered. _Leave. Run. Don't look back._

But it was too late, Hamilton was back. Cleaned them both up, then collapsed in the bed next to Thomas like a dead weight.

“I can– I can go to the couch,” Thomas said, surprised to find that his voice still worked. There was absolutely no part of him that wanted to leave, his bones ached to stay and curl up next to Hamilton and let sleep find him, but he couldn’t. Not if this wasn’t real, not if Hamilton would wake up the next day and be angry to find him in his bed.

He was halfway to rolling out of the bed when a hand darted out to grab his arm. He turned back to see Hamilton staring at him with the same odd expression as before, the one he couldn’t quite place but seemed so familiar.

“Stay,” Hamilton whispered pleadingly, and all but flung himself at Thomas in a tangle of limbs and heat and heartbeats pounding in sync.

Thomas wrapped an arm around Hamilton’s frame and pulled him close, pulse suddenly racing and alight with fire. The word _stay_ played on repeat in his head like a broken record, and he held onto Hamilton so tightly it was as if he might disappear if he dared let go.

Hamilton’s breath was soft against his neck, and he was asleep within a matter of minutes. Thomas contented himself with watching him in this peaceful state, etching every little line and detail of the smaller man’s face into his memory in case this was the last time he’d see it.

Eventually, his eyes grew heavy and fluttered closed.

Sleep came easy that night.

–––

Thomas woke before Hamilton, who was still knocked out beside him, snoring softly. He had moved around quite a bit in his sleep– had rolled away from Thomas and taken all of the blankets with him, because of course he did.

He laid in bed for a few minutes before growing bored, and slid out of the bed, taking care to not wake the sleeping Hamilton next to him. He pulled on the shirt and boxers which had been discarded on the floor and padded out into the hallway, coming to a stop by the window in the living room.

Soft sunlight streamed in through the curtains, illuminating the room with the gentle, early morning light. It was a Saturday, thankfully; work wasn’t an issue and he could take this time to laze around and _think._

Last night… happened. The memory brought both a warm smile to his face and a buzzing anxiety to his heart. It was an interesting transgression, to say the least.

Hamilton _wanted him._

_Hamilton wanted him to stay._

Stay in _bed,_ that is. Whether or not he wanted Thomas around for the long run was still unclear; his heart said _of course he does_ but his brain said _but maybe not._

And if Hamilton did, would he be willing to comply? Would he really want to try and pursue something real with him?

(The answer to that was _yes, fuck yes,_ but admitting that to himself seemed more terrifying than anything else.)

He heard the sound of light footsteps from behind him and turned to see Hamilton, clad only in his boxers and a blanket around his shoulders, stood on the opposite side of the room.

“Thomas,” he said softly.

“Hey.” Thomas went to him slowly, lightly, as if he was approaching a deer who might run at any moment.

Hamilton didn’t run off, instead came forward to meet Thomas in the middle. “I thought you left,” he said quietly.

Thomas shook his head. “No, I just didn’t want to wake you.”

The question was blatantly obvious, on the forefront of both of their minds, and yet neither of them said anything. _Too early in the morning. Give it a minute._

“I’m gonna make breakfast,” Hamilton said suddenly. “You like pancakes?”

He shrugged. “Waffles are superior, but that’s fine.”

Hamilton put a hand over his chest in mock-offense, gasping dramatically. “How _dare_ you insult the best breakfast food. Waffles are for _savages.”_

Thomas rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the smile that teased its way onto his lips and followed Hamilton to the kitchen. He should ask, he wanted to ask, the question was on the tip of his tongue, and yet he waited. It would come up, it had to. He didn’t want to disturb the peace.

Twenty minutes later, Hamilton was sliding two pancakes onto a plate– box mix, Thomas had expected no less– and pushed it towards Thomas. After serving himself, they carried the food to the living room and ate, side by side. The pancakes were okay, nothing special; Thomas found himself barely focused on eating, eyes and thoughts instead locked on Hamilton. On _Alexander._

Few words were exchanged as they ate, until Thomas finally couldn’t take it anymore.

“What is this?”

Hamilton looked up, fork halfway to his mouth, and cocked his head. “What’s what?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. This. _Us.”_

A pause, and Hamilton set his fork back down on his plate. He leaned forward in his chair, rested his chin on his palm and his elbow on the table. “What do you want it to be?”

There were a million answers to that question, and yet Thomas found himself flushing and looking away, heartbeat quickening. “I… don’t know.” A half-lie, and yet somehow the most truthful answer he could give.

Alexander sighed, looking thoughtful. “I like you, Thomas.”

He tried his best to ignore the explosions of about ten different emotions in his chest, attempting to keep a calm exterior. “I do too.” Maybe someday he would tell Alexander about the weeks, months of pining, of conflicting emotions and battling with himself, about the sleepless nights and drunken phone calls to James, but now was not that time. Three words were sufficient.

“I think we’ve passed the point of casual hate sex.”

Thomas cracked a smile at that. “You think?"

Alexander returned his grin, if only for a fleeting moment, before continuing. “I think you should stay.”

 _Stay, stay, stay._ The word caused Thomas’ brain to come to a stop, and he was silent.

His silence must’ve been taken the wrong way, because Alexander faltered and began to backtrack. “I mean– only if you want– it doesn’t have to be anything _official,_ I just–”

“Shut up,” Thomas said, his voice coming out in a rushed whisper. “Just– _fuck–”_

He couldn’t restrain himself any longer; practically threw himself at Alexander and kissed him, with an intensity unmatched by any of their previous kisses– where those had been hot and needy and desperate, this was passion and desire and something stronger, something that he didn’t dare name.

Thomas pulled away, breathless. He cradled Alexander’s face in his hands, inches away from his own.

When he laughed, it came out almost delirious. “You– have _no idea–_ how long I’ve wanted that,” he said between breaths.

Alexander grinned, and kissed him again. “So you’ll stay?” he asked, murmuring the question against Thomas’ lips.

Thomas flickered his gaze to meet Alexander’s eyes, shooting down to glance at his lips before letting out a soft hum.

“Stay… I think I like the sound of that.”

**Author's Note:**

> first time writing smut eyo ;0 this fic was hella fun to write, i hope you liked it xx
> 
> i'd love to hear from you in the comments, i thrive off of feedback and people commenting on my writing. (even if you dont, thanks for reading all the same. it means the world.)
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.roseclipping.tumblr.com) i love love love hearing from you guys!!
> 
> thanks for reading<3


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